


hot for teacher

by pavaal



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Everyone Thinks They're Together, High School, M/M, Rumors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 14:26:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pavaal/pseuds/pavaal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Dave are teachers at the same high school, embarrassingly in love and obvious to everyone but each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. twenty-five going on five

**Author's Note:**

> based on this here prompt:
> 
> maybe you could write some teacherstuck stuff like in which they are colleagues and they have a thing for each other and they are super obvious about it (they dont realise this but they are) so now theres this huge rumour about them being into each other flowing through the school and i dont know what else wtf i suck at prompts im sorry

You fucking love having your first period free. 

It means a number of things, usually catching up on sleep before your students arrive, but your favorite on the list of possibilities is shitting around in the library and playing those websites that you always have to tell your kids off for wasting time on. With a cup of filmy coffee in one hand, you carefully align your faerie cannon with the appropriate bubbles for maximum combo acquisition—this game pisses you off to no end, but there is no better adrenaline pump than Neopets.

Your screen is filled nearly to capacity when one of your coworkers comes up behind you and forces you to accidentally fire off your last bubble. The game falls apart to the rhythm of your soul, and you swivel around to face the man who has just ruined breakfast for your starving Aishas.

“Maybe you shouldn’t go for all those shitty combos next time,” he grins, and there is a smugness in those blue eyes that you can’t believe exists for it being 8:30 on a Monday morning. He sits next to you.

“Maybe you shouldn’t tell people how to play games for eight year olds next time,” you scoff, derisive. “Someone might think you make a habit of it.”

He laughs, taking your cup from your hand and taking a hearty swig—you can see the grimace, he didn’t expect that you had it black—before returning it to you with another cheeky comment all lined up: “Have you looked at the high-score boards lately? A certain ghostbusters413  _might_ just be reigning champ of possibly every puzzle game known to man.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever. Are you on exam duty next week?”

“Am I? Ugh.” He palms his pockets, finds nothing in them, and then stands up so he can check the caboose. Still empty. “I think I left the schedule in my room. Do you have it?”

The day you carry any of your supplies out of your room will be the day hell freezes over, so you shake your head without even bothering to check. “Who do you think I am? Rose?”

John snickers and plops back down like an asshole this time, chest pressed up against the back of the chair with his arms folded over. “I should’ve guessed. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say you don’t know if you’re on duty either?”

You shrug. “Not a clue. Mind if I come by later and take a gander to see what’s goin’ on ‘round these parts?”

“Go ahead.” His mouth pulls to the right when he smiles, you notice. “We can walk together when my copies are done.”

John’s room is on the other end of the school from yours and it’s fucking bullshit—though Rose or Jade would be much better choices for keeping all your schedules neat and orderly, you get the feeling both of them are too busy judging you to help you sincerely. John is inconveniently located and almost as messy as you are, but at least when you fuck up, he’ll be right there with you.

He likes being a teacher. You’re not overly fond, and yet here you are.

Freshman English.

Every day.

Sometimes you pass your kids just so you won’t have to see them a second year in a row.

“Cool,” you say, bobbing your head idly. “I might swing by again just because. We’re covering Romeo and Juliet, and I’m thinkin’ all I need to do is toss in the movie, ask Rose to watch the little darlings, and haul ass to your room so I can get work done.”

You sip your coffee; it’s really no big deal to plan this. You spend way more time in his room than you feel is necessary, and it makes it easier to meet up for lunch. If you’re already together when fourth period rolls around, you won’t waste precious minutes making the trek.

“Okay.” He agrees easily enough, and you smile a thin line against the rim of your paper cup. “It’s a date.”

You’re about to deliver some snappy line in reply when the library assistant calls from the copy room to let him know that his tests are done printing—you click your tongue, disapprovingly. “Giving a test the week before an exam, John? Are you the devil?”

Sometimes you suspect he might be, with the way his students complain about him and his grading system in your class, but then you talk to him—talk _with_ him, watch his face break into an amused smile at the accusation, and you figure Satan might be a pretty nice dude, if he and John are one in the same.

“Don’t blow my cover, Dave.” He shoves your shoulder, lightly, obviously forgetting for a moment that you’re in the workplace and there are lines that the upper echelons of faculty frown upon you crossing. You don’t mind much. “I’ll never hear the end of it. Help me with these papers?”

He steps back, toward the copy room, and you follow dutifully. You’re under no obligation to lend a hand, of course, but you’re a fuckin’ nice guy.

John passes you a stack and you give the top paper a cursory glance.

“What is this?” you demand.

“It’s math,” he responds, shouldering open the door to the library with his folder of tests in hand. “Lots and lots of math.”

“You are, indeed, the veritable king of hell.” Just kidding. You’re awesome at math. John’s kids can suck your dick if they think this is hard. “No wonder your kids throw such little bitchfits about the homework you assign. They come into my class like minute, pissed off, acne-ridden French rebels, and you’re the Marie Antoinette of the West Wing.” You pause, thoughtfully. “Marie Antoinegbert.”

His laugh echoes down the empty hall, and you’d be embarrassed for him if he didn’t sound so genuinely delighted at the pain of teenagers you’ve described for him.

“If they can’t afford A’s, let them eat failure.”

John unlocks his door and drops his papers on his desk, and you follow suit before hopping up and making yourself comfortable next to his pencil sharpener. It has a number of faded stickers on there, good jobs and great works with apple decor, and you wonder for a brief moment just how often he actually uses those on his students. Besides that, though, his desk is pretty empty of accessories—not even a portrait.

It’s kind of…

“Do you have a girlfriend?” you blurt out. Your mouth is a gun and the question is a stray bullet, and you think maybe you just pulled a Dick Cheney. John, much to your relief, takes the hunting accident surprisingly well, a bashful amusement pulling the corner of his closed mouth upwards.

“Are you coming onto me, Dave?” You hate when your questions are countered by another question, and this is no exception.

Unwilling to look as though you actually are coming onto him, you straighten your shoulders and adjust your posture. The harder you peacock, the less sincere you’ll seem to both him and yourself. “Absolutely. I’m head over heels and I just can’t keep it down any longer. I’m gonna write it on your board, even.” You hop off the desk, snatching a dry-erase marker from the gutter thing that you don’t actually know the name of to scrawl in big, red letters:

_Dave Strider loves John Egbert_

For good measure, you encase it in a heart, and draw an arrow to John’s name to add the footnote:

_he has his phd in being a total weiner_

It’s not the most mature thing you’ve ever done, but at twenty-five years old and teaching in a rinky-dink public school, you feel no real call to be mature. Nor does John, apparently, because he circles around from where he had been sitting in his chair to grab another marker—he slanders your own name with a devious laugh. 

_the only masters degree he has is from the university of weird stonk!!!!_

(You might have shown him the webcomic you made when you were a kid.)

You’re about to counter with an equally scathing remark when the bell rings to signal the end of first period, and you jolt. Fuck. You didn’t even look at the schedule, which is what your dumb ass came here for. Quickly, you cap the marker and slide back over to his desk, rifling through the papers to find the list. John is still holding his marker delicately when he joins you.

“Uhh,” he begins, brushing an old test out of the way. “Here! Got it. You can just take it with you and bring it back later.”

He hands you the schedule, and you’re all up and ready to go, but when you turn to face the door and leave, you’re greeted with your least favorite sight of the day so far: a group of students, just a couple, really, staring at the board with stupid knowing smirks on their faces. One of the little assholes  _leers_ at you.

“Meant to erase that,” you offer, lamely.

He snaps a picture on his phone.


	2. queer readings of english literature

In the time it took for you to bolt from John’s room to yours, the rumors began to fly, proven and then exacerbated by the power of social networking—you discover almost immediately, then, that you have become an advocate of banning cell phones in school. 

You’re a young, hot dude. In the worst case scenario, these kids should be making up lies about how you let a girl suck your dick to get out of her final. They shouldn’t be all a-titter about your love life when you walk into your class, and perhaps more importantly, it shouldn’t… _bug_ you like it does, that this has already become a thing.

“Mr. Strider,” one of your students calls to you. “Are you gay?”

 _No._ You liked that kid, too. 

You’re not sure if you should play along or deflect their questions, because in all truth, you’re going to lose this either way.

Teenagers are persistent creatures, and they’ll hear what they want to—and if they want to hear that you and John have vigorous quickies with each other in the five minutes between bells, then you could read them fucking _Paradise Lost_ and they’d still hear all the juicy details about your sexuality.

“Being gay is illegal where I’m from,” you fire back, turning your laptop on so you can connect it to the smartboard. You definitely want out of this class. “If I were gay, I’d be dead. Texas ain’t nothin’ to screw with.”

“Man, Mr. Strider! Be real about this!”

“Are you kidding me?” You turn around and straighten up, and the poor child thinks you’re about to send him to the principal. Good. “I’m being incredibly real. Life is the most precious gift of all, and if you think I’m going to hand my sweet tush over to the law just for a few moments of hot dudes _touching_ aforementioned tush, you are a na ïve fool.”

“Okay, but,” he says, “I saw where you wrote that you loved Mr. Egbert, and that sounds pretty gay to me.”

Well, yeah.

You swear you have the dumbest bunch of kids.

“Consider me Mercutio,” you offer instead, sliding in the DVD for the movie. “I am staunchly—vocab word, quiz tomorrow—opposed to love and I think we’d all be better off if it weren’t a thing.”

With the video set up and the bell ringing to ruin the lives of all the tardy students, you grab your gradebook and take a quick attendance. Of course they’d all be here. You hate your life. “Can someone get the lights?”

A girl near the front stands up and does as you ask, but she pauses before she returns to her seat. Oh no.

“Mr. Strider?”

You glance up, braced for the absolute worst. “Yeah?”

“I was reading about this stuff the other night, and a lot of scholars think Mercutio is gay. I just thought you might want to know.”

A ripple of laughter runs through your classroom, and you realize you have been bested by your own flimsy example. That’s what you get, you suppose, for trying to tie in a lesson to your personal life.

“All right, all right. You got me. I’m into him. The bell for second period cut us off before we could get to the passionate make-out session we engage in every morning.”

The class falls silent. You feel the weight of early teen judgment fall upon your shoulders along with it. You could kick yourself for forgetting they err on the side of taking you seriously.

“It’s a joke,” you deadpan, hopeful for a recovery. “Sometimes I tell jokes. Mr. Egbert is as straight as a board and regardless of whether or not I’m gay, he _isn't_ , and we are not involved. Lay your fantasies to rest for now, sweet angels.”

It sucks more than you expected to internalize it.

John’s probably not gay. You… are not gay either, not technically, but you’ve had boyfriends, and this is stunningly irrelevant because you aren’t into your coworker like that anyway.

You frown.

“I’m gonna get Ms. Lalonde to watch this class while you get busy on this movie,” you announce, shrugging off your fleeting notions as you reach back to press play. “I’ve got better places to be.”

You scoop a stack of papers off your desk, leave the room with the same casual air you always carry, and pop your head in Rose’s room to request your usual favors.

She obliges, but when you close the door, you can hear one of her students ask if you and John are dating.

Damn.

Already?

It’s impossible not to entertain the thought, so by the time you reach John’s classroom, you’re almost too intimidated to go in. Nevertheless, you’re not a small child with the heart of a delicate flower, so you strong-arm your way inside and all eyes are immediately on you. A classroom full of teenagers, hungry and waiting for the next bit of drama; they know you come in here all the time, but this is the first instance where they’ve wanted to pay attention.

“Can I talk to you?”

Huh. That’s not the question you wanted to ask.

John looks surprised, then nervous, and he glances across the desks, biting his lip. You know you’re interrupting a test, and to pull him out of his classroom absolutely means all of his kids are going to cheat off each other, but maybe, just  _maybe,_ these things you keep saying without thinking have some kind of importance.

“I’ll be right back,” he finally announces, standing up. “I trust none of you and so you don’t get the benefit of the doubt here if I suspect you of cheating. Got it?”

“Yes,” they groan, and when John furrows his brow at you just before leading the both of you outside his door, you sort of feel like groaning with them.


	3. he would be proud to read this

“Damn.” Once you close the door behind you, safely away from any prying little ears—and you do slam back against the wall, hard and loud, just to chase away anyone brave enough to try to listen in—you are forced to bow to John’s superior skills. “You’ve got those kids _whipped_.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, flattered despite the anxiety you’ve probably set a-fluttering in his innocent, sweatervested chest. “They like me. They are also just pants-shittingly scared of me.”

You know the story, of course.

During John’s first year of teaching, he tried to do the nice guy thing. Bullshitting your way into favor has always been a talent of yours, but John? He’s too blunt. A genuinely nice person, yes, but too straightforward. The kids treated him like a friend without any of the respect due to a teacher, the banter got a little out of hand, and, well—allegedly, John went on a frustrated, end-of-year tirade that may or may not have ended in four markers thrown, three kids crying, and a reputation to last a lifetime.

Were it not for the solid gold grades on the standardized exam, you think John would have been out of a job, but…

He’s a good teacher. Props to him. He can get away with being an asshole.

You, on the other hand, can’t step out of line. The grades of your kids are fine, some pass, some don’t, but it’s that special, English-teacher bond you manage to form that keeps you here. Also the fact that you and Jade make up the entire tech support team for this backwards hick county school, but it’s mostly your Miss Honey levels of magnanimity that make you a beloved part of this academic society.

Meaning, of course, if some little shit threatens to complain, you bargain bumping them up a letter grade to maintain your spotless reputation in the eyes of the faculty.

“That’s, uh, kind of what I’m wanting to talk to you about. Your image, I mean.” You pop your lips, drumming your fingers on the door. You pick idly at a paint chip. “My students think we’re dating.”

“What?” John’s smile is both baffled and empty. He reminds you of a puppy.

Fucking adorable.

“Yeah. Apparently everyone here follows everyone else on Twitter. Who knew? But like, I was getting all ready to show _Romeo and Juliet_ —”

“—the one with Leonard Whiting and Olivia Hussey, right? The good one?”

“Yes, Jesus, John. The good one. But I would argue that the one with Leonardo DiCaprio was _objectively_ just as good, but not appropriate as a supplement to the play for. Y’know. Teaching purposes. Plus, okay, I’ll be honest with you. Leonard Whiting is so damn cute in his little tights and unsettling resemblance to Zac Efron from certain angles.”

He seems satisfied. “Go on.”

“About Leonard Whiting?”

“No, smartass. You were setting the scene.”

“Right, yeah.” Leonard Whiting _is_ cute, though. You wonder what he looks like nowadays. Is he even alive? 

Jesus Christ, you've got to get your shit together.

“I was getting all ready to show _Romeo and Juliet_ , the good one, and one of my students was all, ‘Mr. Strider, are you gay?’ Which, normally, whatever. I’d deflect it. I did deflect it, actually, and it was pro as fuck, but then they were asking about me and you, and that picture on your board, sooo…”

You trail off, helplessly. A small part of you would like to pick up that conversation about Leonard Whiting again, but the time has passed, and now you have to discuss adult things—like what to do with your kids, who are young and generally lack the kind of upbringing that would allow them to deal maturely with the idea that two of their teachers might be in a homosexual relationship.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that that’s the kind of thing that would put you on pins and needles in the workplace. If you were married, fine. The school can’t do anything about that. But with the way you often slack off to hang out with John, you really can’t afford a sordid rumor flying around about you.

He can, though. If you’re going to go down for this, you’re using him as a human sacrifice.

“So.” He sighs, crossing his arms. “I guess we’ve got to do something about this? Telling them it’s not true isn’t going to fix anything.”

John is unfortunately very, very correct. When teenagers find something to pursue—as long as it isn’t schoolwork, you’ve discovered—they won’t let something as simple as a fact stop them. You spent an entire semester trying to convince one class that you and Rose weren’t dating and could never date because she’s a taken and highly committed woman, but they simply weren’t having it.

She finally hung a large, painted portrait—lovingly paid for by her mother—of her and her girlfriend up in her room, and the rumors stopped.  It covers half of the board she uses to write and you swear her soulless eyes judge you whenever you slip in after school to steal markers, but sacrifices must be made. 

It’s a really nice painting.

“We’ve got a few options here. One, one of us finds a beautiful bride and we go the route of a shotgun wedding. The faults in this plan include the possibility of an affair, in which case, the kids would probably be even more into our chemistry. Two, we let it die and hope they stop caring.”

John frowns at you. “Why did you put the reasonable one second?”

“I’m not finished. Three, we _actually_ date, which will probably get everyone excited for ten seconds tops, and then they’ll stop caring because there’s nothing to talk about. We break up in like a month, there’s a little drama, and then they go back to trying to hook either of us up with the next hot piece of ass to walk in our line of vision.”

You think it’s a pretty good plan, actually, considering you came up with it just now. If you can contain the rumors by controlling them, instead of fighting them, then… all will be well, right?

Since you can’t show public displays of affection at work, you won’t even have to act as though you and John are dating. You simply will exist as two souls in love.

“You think that’ll work?” John finally asks, tentative.

“Dunno for sure, but, the best laid plans always get screwed over, or however that phrase goes. We just gotta wing it.”

John glances back in his classroom through the little window in his door, squinting at a student who is looking around instead of at his desk. When he looks back at you, he doesn’t seem any closer to an answer than he was before terrifying that poor child.

“Well?” you prompt. “I won’t be offended if you don’t want to fake-date me, man. Just say the word and our fake-relationship is fake-annulled.”

He sighs, resting his fingers on the doorhandle, ready to go back in without telling you yes or no. “I’ll give you an answer at the end of the day, all right? Maybe lunch. Just… not this instant.”

“Fair enough,” you agree. You can’t expect someone like John to give you a good answer right away—really, you can’t expect him to give you a good answer at all, but you do know that he’s going to spend every passing minute building paper cranes and considering everything in the world but your offer. “I’ll actually do my job in the meantime and see if I can’t do some damage control, too. See you in a few hours?”

“Yeah.” John smiles, edging toward nervous, and opens the door. “See you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we all have a crush on [leonard whiting](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ll2pia4qcR1qi5r1lo1_500.jpg)


	4. a month (and a few days)

John, ultimately, said yes to your proposal. 

It’s been a month—a month and a few days, actually—since then, and while you’ve revealed it to the coworkers you converse with (Rose and Jade) as a hoax, as far as anyone else in the school knows, you and John have finally decided to go public about your relationship.

The two of you did share an awkward moment with the principal, as you belatedly remembered to anticipate, but he was surprisingly cool about it: as it turns out, there is no policy outright against dating coworkers. The both of you promised that this wouldn’t affect your performance—and you personally assured your boss that the only reason you left your classroom to visit John was because of the strain of privacy, really, and now that won’t ever have to happen—and honestly?

Things have been good.

You weren’t wrong when you told John that the kids would lose interest—a couple of the girls in his class were delighted, still are, at the idea of John having a romantic partner, and often propose date ideas on the back of their tests, but beyond that, there hasn’t been any buzz.

Not from the community at large. Not from the kids. It’s been more peaceful than you expected, and you’re kind of bummed that you should be “breaking up” with John soon.

The month you allotted for your relationship is over, John has a stack of fantastic date plans for when he actually has a girlfriend, and you—you are probably the only person worse off for it.

That’s just not fucking fair.

It’s a thought that sounds more bitter than you feel, but you would be lying to yourself if you said you weren’t holding a _teaspoon_ of frustration to throw into this whole gay cake mix. You’re happy, fake-dating John, and you aren’t ready to let go of even the bogus emotional security you’ve managed to squeeze out. 

John comes to your room after school, the Friday of the week of your “monthiversary,” and stands in the doorway while you swivel around in your desk chair grading papers.

Three rotations later, you actually look up and notice him.

“Oh,” you greet. “Hey.”

John looks uncharacteristically serious, so you stop the chair and put your papers down. “Is something up?”

He pauses. Straightens his collar. Frowns at the board while carefully avoiding your face.

“We need to talk.”

There is actually a moment where you feel your stomach drop, and you stand as an instinctive reaction to the loaded phrase. Nobody ever wants to hear ‘we need to talk,’ especially not you, especially not considering this past month.

“About what?” you prompt. You come out from behind your desk, nearly tripping over a stray textbook as you snake your way to the front of the room. This is probably a conversation he wants to have when you’re on the same goddamn continent.

John takes a deep, shaky breath, and a million possibilities run through your mind: did he get fired? Maybe his parents found out about your relationship and cut him out of the family. He would have explained the situation, right? God—maybe they didn’t believe him. Shit. You’ve ruined John’s life.

You have literally _ruined_ —

“Are you cheating on me?”

You are silent for a long moment, staring at him, and the first thought your brain has when it resumes activity is that you could throttle this man.

“Holy _shit_.”

John laughs, loud and so fucking giddy at your temporary despair. “Hah! I got you so good, Dave!” 

You do snicker a little, at least, when he snorts and only laughs harder for it.

“Oh man,” he smiles, coming down from his high and wiping away a tear, “what did you _think_ I was going to say?”

You don’t tell him that you were genuinely worried for his livelihood, because those are some gay-ass feelings and aren’t welcome in your classroom. You lie, instead.

“I thought you wanted to break up with me.” You place your hand over your heart, just as dramatic as he was moments ago. “John, baby, you _know_ I would never cheat on you.”

When he rolls his eyes and punches your arm, any worries you had earlier, from John’s appearance or before, have officially disappeared into the void.

You lo—

You…

You refuse to have this revelation now, and instead will it away through the power of sheer force.

“That’s what I’m here for, actually.” He says, dropping the soap opera act with a sheepish little grin. Despite your refusal to have a revelation, your eyes are drawn to his mouth. “It’s been a month. A month and a few days, more like it, but, heh! Who’s counting?”

He rubs the back of his neck. At least you’re not the only one.

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “It has. Are we calling it quits? Throwin’ in the towel? Has the guillotine come down on the King of France, and the King of France is a metaphor for our love life?”

“Dave…”

“We’ve fallen out of the tree, man. No more K-I-S-S-I-N-G for us. We had the love there. Nursery rhyming law _dictates_ that marriage and a baby in a baby carriage come next, but I guess we’re just going to have to give the fuck up on that dream.”

“Dave! God.” He’s laughing again, despite the exasperation, so you know you’ve done well. “Yes, all of those things. I’m starting to get to the point where it feels like we’re actually dating, and that’s weird.”

You wouldn’t say it’s weird, but you get where he’s coming from. You guess.

“Okay, so.” What the fuck do you do now? “Do you want me to like—put it in writing? Do we need to have an official conference of dissolution or is it just… over?”

This isn’t a real breakup, you know, but it’s reminiscent enough of one that you still feel a bit uneasy having this conversation. You need John to pull out an electric buzzer and shake your hand or something under the guise of making it official; that’ll fix you right up.

“I guess it’s over! Heh.” John shrugs, just as helpless—and maybe just as awkward—about this whole situation as you are. “I can’t believe it worked.”

“Yeah,” you mutter.

The two of you drift off into underwhelmed silence.

You wonder if it says anything about the two of you that the student body as well as the arguably more perceptive faculty believed the both of you were dating without a hitch. No one cropped up with their objections or suspicions. Everyone readily and, in some cases, enthusiastically accepted the two of you as secret partners coming out of the closet.

John finally speaks up and interrupts your thoughts.

“So, uh—it’s Friday.”

He glances up at you. You aren’t sure what he’s looking for. Validation?

“It sure is.”

He laughs, running his fingers through his hair, and his gaze drops to the floor. “Sorry! I’m so shitty at this. Do you want to like, maybe… not as a date, you know, but do you want to maybe go to a movie or something tonight? I used to work at the theater and I can sometimes get in for free, so…”

You stiffen up, surprised and immediately embarrassed even though he clarified, albeit quietly, with a fumble so magnificent the sports awards would give him a thousand Golden Globes, that it wasn’t a date.

But it is. If food is involved, no matter how many times you both say it’s not a date, it’s a date.

“We can go get something to eat before. Or after. Your pick.”

And then he lets his hand drop back to his side, meeting your eyes. You look away, and you’re not sure what expression he makes, but his tone changes enough that you can guess.

“If you’re busy, though, that’s cool too! I just thought it would be like a celebration or something. For making it through a whole month.”

“No, uh.” Fuck. You’re better than this. “That sounds great, actually. I never have plans, so—”

“So I’ll call you.” John nods, confidence returning in full bloom. You suspect he probably high-fived himself on the inside, but that might be wishful thinking. “Later. Around six?”

“Awesome,” you say, and he repeats it back to you in confirmation before backing out the door. He’s no longer in your line of vision, but his footsteps stop, just for a moment, only to pick up again with something that sounds suspiciously like a skip before resuming a normal pattern.

You smile to yourself, pressing your hand over your mouth.

John Egbert asked you out on a date.


	5. somewhere over the rainbro

Now, you’ve been wrong before.

There was that time that you got into a citation argument with one of your students and, as it turned out, she was right and you were dead wrong after a brief and flustered consultation with the MLA handbook. You blamed it on learning a different system, but deep down, you knew that there’s no excuse for an English teacher taking off points for a student using MLA 7 when you were still stuck in MLA 6.

But, okay, to be fair—that’s the _only_ time you’ve ever been wrong about anything, ever, and so you think you’re justified in saying your date with John was the ultimate date. It was the magnum opus of outings. The pinnacle of partnership… the apex of…

Well, regardless of alliteration, it was a damn good date.

However, if you’re being honest with yourself, you can’t say with certainty that it _was_ a date—you went to the movies and got Chili’s afterwards (which John, ever the gentleman, offered to pay for and you had to politely turn him down for the sake of your pride), which all sounds very date-like to you and did from the moment you made the plans, but. Neither of you ever called it a date, and John was quick to assure you when he asked you out in the first place that it wasn’t.

Which, admittedly, leaves you in a bit of a pickle.

If it _wasn’t_ a date, and there were no romantic intentions behind the gesture, then it would be weird to ask him out again, wouldn’t it? You’d need some kind of catalyst beyond “it’s Friday,” and in a place like this, there are never real opportunities. It might be Christmas before you get the chance to ask John out again under the pretense of celebration, and you don’t want that: by the time the birth of the true Lord and Savior rolls around, he might have a cute lady on his arm, and oh, whoa, whoa, _whoa—_

You stop in the middle of writing notes on the board, distressed by the turn your thoughts have taken. Ugh. The revelation you refused to have on Friday returns in full force, and this time, you can’t stop it.

You love John Egbert.

And then—no, you think. You _don’t_ love John Egbert. You like him, in that accidental office romance kind of way, where he’s the only person who pays attention to you that is not only attractive, charming, and mature, but also _legal_.

It’s not love, and you aren’t entitled to his feelings even if it were.

That said, you don’t know if John is anything but straight, and you don’t know how to go about finding out this information without offending him. He jokes a lot. You wouldn’t be surprised if this whole… _thing_ between the two of you is like one big game to him, nor would you be offended, because that’s what you assumed it was right up until you realized that his khakis hug his ass in the most flattering way you’ve ever seen a man wear khakis. If your spirit could sigh, you’re pretty sure it would be heaving one right about now.

“Mr. Strider?”

Much like a prairie dog, you snap your head toward the source of the sound, the practiced reflexes of a teacher who is not so much eager to teach as eager to waste time answering stupid questions.

“What up?” you ask, easily, marker still pressed to the board mid-sentence.

“You, uh,” your student seems embarrassed to point it out, and you make an inconspicuous glance toward your crotch. You’re safe down there, at least. There is no hope for you as a teacher if you pop a boner in the middle of class, _especially_ not if you get the opportunity to explain it away by saying you were simply thinking about a coworker’s healthy butt. “You’re talking to yourself.”

Oh, well. That’s much better.

“To write these notes? Duh. I memorized them, and I want to make sure that you get the full force of experience. If you missed out on even a single word, I’ve failed you as a teacher, and I should just be fired right here and now. My career’s over, not unlike my good friend Leonard Whiting’s. He was destined for greatness.” You lay your head on the whiteboard, feigning defeat. “He was going to _go_ places.”

You trail off into another mumbling tangent, and the student who interrupted you in the first place clears his throat awkwardly.

“Christ,” you curse, quietly, and this time when your head makes contact with the whiteboard, it’s a _thunk_ of frustration. “Sorry, kids. Li’l distracted today.”

You maintain, now to yourself rather than to your class, that regardless of how _you_ feel, in a situation like this, you have to figure out what’s going on in John’s head—he might be one of those guys that’s fine with homosexual japery, but the minute you make an honest advance, he explodes. John has that lurking temper, so it’s not an _unreasonable_ assumption, but you’d also be willing to bet that his rage trigger isn’t being mistaken for a sexual minority.

You’ll think about it later.

In the meantime, you’ve still got a class to teach—which has never stopped you from slacking off _before_ , but right now, it provides a good distraction and you’d rather not look as though you were left in the lurch by the man of your dreams. Which you weren’t. It was a mutual breakup, inasmuch as it was a breakup at all, and you got an evening of real friendship out of it.

The kind of real friendship that you had before, truthfully, but now you feel as though you’ve got a green card to actually start getting to know John as he exists outside of these walls.

“Have you ever had a gay experience?”

“What?”

John looks up from his lunch, perplexed. You pull up one of the desks.

“A gay experience,” you reiterate. “Like, maybe you dated a guy in college, or you didn’t date him, but you fooled around… you know.” Your gestures are broad and mean nothing, but you have to talk with your hands. If you’re perfectly articulate, John will get the wrong idea.

“I don’t know if I should talk about this,” he laughs, offering you a cracker with a bit of tuna salad spread on it; you lean in, allowing him to feed it to you, which he does with another amused little snort. “I mean, we just got done settling the rumors.”

“So we won’t write it on the board.” You lick the corner of your mouth. “Come on. We’ve hung out in the real world. This is standard brotocol for getting to know someone on a personal, non-academic level.”

“I can’t believe you just used the word _brotocol_ and you still expect me to associate with you.”

“This is my bromain.”

“This is _my_ classroom. First you just barge in here, and _then_ you ask me, basically, if I’ve ever put a dick in my mouth, and then you start speaking in portmanbros? Dave.”

You reach over and place a finger to his mouth, silencing him gently.

“I’ve got three words for you, John. Nineties. Irony. Culture.”

John raises his eyebrows incredulously at you, but seems to have nothing else to say—so you pull your hand back, sweeping the air in front of you as though daring him to make a snappy comment about the philosophies of what was cool and what was not back when you were both kids. He shakes his head.

“Irregardless,” he begins, and a devious grin spreads across his face when you tense in annoyance, “that stupid ironic thing died when we were teenagers, so it’s no excuse. Plus, even if it were, I don’t have to answer your question!”

He brandishes his plastic knife at you, threateningly, before clearing his desk while you consider your reply. All right. Maybe asking John about his sexual history wasn’t the most delicate way of approaching his innermost secrets—you’ll try again, with something a little different.

“Fair enough.” You lean back in the desk you copped for your own purposes. “I ask you, then, John Egbert. When was the last time you dated _anybody_ —and before you get any ideas about my intentions here, I’m _just_ asking. The truth is, I know this totally hot and cool girl who is _way_ looking for an equally hot and cool boyfriend, and I would date her myself except we’re basically twins so it’s spiritual incest. Unfortunately, I’m the only hot and cool guy I know around, so I told her I could find someone who has a forgettable and understated personality. That guy? Is you. Just call me goddamn _Robin_ , because I am the ultimate wingman.”

You’re ninety percent sure John isn’t even listening to you anymore. That percentage shoots up to one hundred when you notice that he’s trying to see if it’s possible to staple a paper to his desk.

“Come _on_ ,” you groan. “I have a hypothetical babe all ready and waiting for you, and you’re testing the strength of your industrial staples?”

“For science.” He slams his hand down on the top of the apparatus. The staple goes through the wood.

“Holy shit.” You stand up so you can get a closer look, and when John lifts the paper, the staple follows it—both of your expressions fall at the same time, disappointed by the lack of holding power of his office supplies. “Science sucks.”

“Science does not suck,” he counters immediately, setting his stapler right and sliding it neatly next to his pencil holder. “You suck. I don’t want to go on a date with your obviously fake soul-twin. And, for the record, I only date people I previously know. While it narrows the pool significantly, it keeps me from accidentally taking a psychopath out to dinner, because I try really hard not to make friends with people who pull the legs off bugs for fun and games anymore.”

Anymore. You grimace.

But, on the upside, he said _people._ Not girls, specifically, though you’re not sure if you’re just reading too much into it or he’s actually trying to drop a hint that you, too, are taking a swim in that metaphorical pool. You and the, what—one other guy he knows? John’s social circle is about as impressive as yours, because truthfully, once you become a teacher, it’s the only thing you know how to talk about anymore.

It’s kind of like being a parent.

“Okay, well. You kind of know her. I think you probably met her once.”

“I don’t know any of your friends, Dave.”

“Yeah, but like, you know me.”

And then John pauses, tilting his head slowly like something straight out of the animes, watching you as though you just informed him that you plan on marrying your brother’s dog at the next available opportunity. It doesn’t register that your words could be taken as a come-on, the disclosure of a secret, until you play that excerpt of the conversation over again in your head.

Right.

“I mean that in a—okay, you know how sometimes people make friends with people who are exactly like them? I’m not the hot and cool girl in question here, I’m just a simple guy looking out for his favorite people in the world.”

“We’ve hung out outside of school _once_ , not counting sports functions and award ceremonies, Dave. I can’t possibly be one of your favorite people.” He says that, but his tone doesn’t seem insulted: surprised, maybe, but tinted with a sense of pleasant embarrassment that you didn’t particularly intend, but will take anyway. “Lunch is almost over. Have you eaten yet?”

Besides the cracker he lovingly fed to you, you haven’t. You have the bad habit of talking straight through your meals when it comes to John, which leaves you snippy until you can at least get a bottle of school-provided apple juice in your stomach. It doesn’t do much for actually feeding you, but it helps stave off the hunger until you can bully one of your coworkers into running and getting you a bag of McDonald’s during their free period.

It works.

“No,” you shrug, and John sighs.

“Okie dokie, then. You can have this,” he hands you a half-eaten bag of chips, “and this,” a soda, “and _this._ ”

Fruit Roll-Ups. Really?

“They’re the kind that you can put tattoos on your tongue and stuff.” John grins, pleased with himself. “Keep it professional, Strider, and if you _really_ want me to meet this female friend of yours, then by all means. There’s a basketball game this Wednesday. Why don’t you bring her by?”

“Uh.” Eloquence has always come naturally to you. “Yeah, sure. You’re going to be blown the hell away when you see what a rockin’ hot specimen she is. So stylish. She’s basically the best ever, and if you don’t want to marry her by the end of the night, I think you’re probably broken.”

She, of course, is you—and this, of course, is your chance.


End file.
